


For External Use Only

by shotgunsinlace



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Drug Use, Dry Humping, Hannibal is Hannibal, M/M, Massage kink, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, unconventional therapy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-03
Updated: 2016-03-03
Packaged: 2018-05-24 12:09:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,539
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6153292
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shotgunsinlace/pseuds/shotgunsinlace
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hannibal recommends some unconventional therapy to help ease Will's stress, and Will agrees to sip the tea.</p>
            </blockquote>





	For External Use Only

**Author's Note:**

> I have no excuse for this other than the inherent need for porn set during S1, along with those good ol' fashioned cliches. This is also unbeta'd, so beware of errors.

Heat from the porcelain cup warms Will’s fingertips, but the rush of heat that surges its way up his neck and ears is completely unrelated. Questionably tea accompanied by questionable therapy. When Hannibal had brought up his tendency to be unorthodox, this isn’t what Will had in mind.

“You want me to do what?”

Hannibal’s desk had been cleared before Will entered his office. A single, long, black box had caught his attention, and it’s been difficult not to look at it since they sat across each other.

“I want you to stand before the desk, hands over the surface,” Hannibal says.

Will taps his fingers over the glossy finish of the cup, breathing in the pungent aroma of mushrooms. He looks over to the desk again, gauging its height, and deciding that laying his hands over it requires him to bend over at an awkward angle.

“And that’s going to help with whatever is going on with me?”

Hannibal considers him for a long moment before unfurling from his chair and getting to his feet in a single fluid motion. Or, at least Will considers it to be a single fluid motion. The tea has made his limbs heavy, head pleasantly buzzed, and he toes the line between regret and contentment about allowing Hannibal to drug him.

Will is hyper aware of every movement, the measured caution Hannibal takes in popping open the buttons of his suit’s jacket as he approaches the desk. “Sleepwalking can very well be a symptom of stress. The same way losing time is your mind’s attempt at shielding itself from the horrors of your crime scenes.”

“They’re not _my_ crime scenes,” Will defends, focusing his gaze on the mezzanine. “Even if they feel like they are.”

“Of course they aren’t. You simply give voice, look at them through a lens.”

“A very foggy lens.” Will sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose as he makes his decision. He can refuse whatever therapy Hannibal has in store. He understands that he, and he alone, is in control. All Will has to do is walk away if the intrusion is too much to handle.

Setting the cup down on the nearest table, Will stands.

Tension coils tight at the base of his spine, making each step uncomfortable. He can feel the pressure between his shoulder blades, the nagging presence at the back of his neck that makes it difficult to focus on simple tasks.

The floor beneath him warps, but that isn’t an entirely new experience.

Hands on the desk, Wills lets his head hang in hopes of getting rid of the tightness there. The action makes the room spin, but he feels firmly rooted to the solid surface beneath them. More or less.

He hears Hannibal’s footsteps as he comes across the desk to mirror his position. The proximity is buffered by the effects of the tea, helping Will stick to his guts when he would have backed away on any other occasion.

“We are going to do a simple exercise to help you relieve stress,” Hannibal says. He pulls the box between them and removes the lid.

Will scoffs. “Those don’t work,” he says, looking down at the personal massager with a hint of embarrassment. “I got one as a gift and all they do is overheat.” 

Beverly had gotten him one last Christmas, although the reason for the gift hadn’t been as innocent as she tried to explain.

Hannibal looks amused. His mouth twitches just enough to come off as a smile, one Will finds himself returning. “Perhaps you were using it incorrectly.”

“Flip the switch and press it to wherever is overly tense. It’s not rocket science, doctor.”

Still, Hannibal plucks the machine from the box. The long shape of it is almost obscene as his fingers wrap around it, the silver body catching the lamplight. The bulbous head is a powdery blue, and it looks infinitely more expensive than the one Will keeps at the back of his closet.

“Do you trust me, Will?”

The bluntness of the question surprises him, but he nods his head regardless. More than his unofficial therapist, Hannibal is his friend. One of the few, if not the only one, who takes him at face value.

“Can you tell me what time it is, and where you are?”

“It’s 8:45pm, and I’m in your office.”

“Good.”

“The tea hasn’t done much,” he says, the initial dizziness having worn off. His fingers _do_ tingle, but that might be due to the fact that Hannibal is handling an object with inescapably sexual connotations. 

Will shouldn’t be entertaining the thought, but there’s a heavy haze of pleasure that accompanies it. He knows he should pull away the moment it becomes intimate, but he trusts Hannibal enough to be professional about whatever therapy he hopes to employ. That doesn’t stop his traitorous libido from hoping Hannibal touches him inappropriately. “Nevermind. Tea kicked in.”

Hannibal straightens up and walks out of sight. Will tenses, suddenly aware of the bend of his body, of how debauched he must seem bent over a desk.

“Now, I’d like you tell me about a pleasant experience, although you may not feel very pleasant at the moment.” His voice carries through the office, only to be interrupted by a loud and constant buzz near Will’s ear. “It doesn’t necessarily have to be a memory.”

Nails digging into polished wood, Will debates whether or not spreading his legs would place him in a worse position. “A fantasy,” he says, more of those warring thoughts sending small pangs all the way down to his groin.

“If you’d like.”

Will hums, thought process seeking out lewd ways to grant Hannibal’s request. He’s interrupted by the gentle press of the massager at the base of his neck, standing his hairs on end and startling a shiver down his spine.

His grasp on words slip as the vibrations carry feather soft across his shoulders, down one arm, up again, and then down the other. Slow and barely there, Will can’t keep his head from hanging down with a groan.

The trail down his right flank tickles but he manages not to flinch, even when Hannibal presses the massager’s head hard against the base of his spine.

“I feel like I don’t have the need to escape right now,” Will confesses, eyelids drooping. He could fall asleep like this, lewd position be damned.

Hannibal’s lack of response, while unnerving, allows him to drift and focus on sensation rather than thought. He presses against all the right places, skimming over areas that might tickle, digging into knots that uncurl in an instant. 

His back and arms are thoroughly explored, his neck only briefly touched upon, and he really wishes Hannibal would focus on that instead. No matter how much he leans towards the touch, the spot is promptly avoided.

The massager is dragged low again, digging deep into his side even as it passes his hip and lingers outside his thigh. Down his leg and around his ankle, it crawls its way back up along the inside of his leg.

Will tenses again, vision swimming as Hannibal subtly traces the arch of his groin without hesitation. He continues, untroubled by the surprised gasp Will couldn’t hold down.

Losing grip of time comes easy like this, with the haze of mushrooms fogging his mind and his muscles uncoiling with each sweep of the machine. Arousal simmers low in his gut, enough to spark heat in his fingertips, but not enough to be suffocating.

“How are you feeling, Will?”

“Warm.” Because stating that he’s more than a little randy might not come off as chaste as it should be.

Hannibal’s cool fingers along his jaw startle a noise out of him. “Seems like you may be running a fever.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“Should the temperature be unpleasant, I’ll be glad to adjust the thermostat.”

“No!” Will is quick to say, unwilling to let Hannibal’s hands wander far from the contraption, or him. “No, it’s alright.”

The massager lingers at the middle of his back, the hand falling away from Will’s face. A tense moment stretches taut between them as Will stares at the flickering fireplace, certain that the situation has finally clicked in Hannibal’s head.

A hand to his back keeps him from pulling away from the desk, the massager once more pressing lower until it follows the slope of Will’s ass and presses, just at the juncture of cheek and thigh.

Will bites his lip to contain a whimper.

“This will only help if you allow yourself to relax,” Hannibal all but purrs, the heavy timbre of his accent settling heavy below Will’s belt. “Let go, and ignore all of the bad things that have happened outside of this office. Only for a short while.”

It would easy to do so, to abandon that last anchor to circumstances that feel real, unlike this.

Will spreads his knees a little wider, deliberately making himself vulnerable. He once thought he knew all of the tricks when it came to therapy, but he never expected this. “What do you gain?”

The vibrating tip presses up against his groin and stays there, making Will’s mouth involuntarily fall open with pleasure.

“Satisfaction in knowing that I have succeeded in granting you a good night’s sleep,” Hannibal says, sounding humbled by the prospect. “Delight in your trust.”

Something resembling a laugh bubbles out of Will’s throat as his hips works jerkily for more pressure. “How altruistic of you, doctor.”

The massager continues its path upward until it presses flush against the swell of his pants, and holds.

Will goes to his elbows, knees too weak to hold the position much longer. Like this, he can feel Hannibal pressing up behind him, realizing just how much enjoyment the good doctor is experiencing at the debauched spectacle.

It’s unbearably hot within the confines of his clothes. He is keenly aware of the sweat beading at his temples, at the foggy sensation that could either be a fever or drugs settling into the base of his skull. Even still, Will pushes back to slowly grind against Hannibal, who responds only with a hand between Will’s shoulder blades, digging fingers into tight tissue.

Mumbling words lost to him, Will is aware of being moved and adjusted, sat on the edge of the desk because the bent position wasn’t doing much for his back. He wants to tell Hannibal that it’s okay, that he doesn’t mind the discomfort so long as he continues to tease his dick, even through the layers of clothing. But those words are abandoned as he watches his own fingers work without thought, popping the button of his pants, dragging down the zipper.

Either he or Hannibal, he can’t and doesn’t necessarily want to, keep track of who does it, snags the band of his boxers behind his scrotum. Will is suddenly very unconcerned at the sight of his exposed cock, painfully hard and bobbing.

“Are you alright, Will?”

“I will be once you put that thing on me.”

“This isn’t what I intended,” Hannibal tries to explain, but the look in his eyes tells Will otherwise. He should be perturbed, but, to be fair, he did wish for Hannibal push boundaries. “This is a very dangerous line to be crossed.”

“If you want me to relax, you’re not being very helpful.” Will grabs Hannibal’s wrist, guiding the machine to where he wants it. His head swims at the contact, the shock of soft vibrations against bare skin making him shiver all over, uncaring of how lewd he is being in front of his therapist. “You were right. I have been using mine incorrectly all along.”

“Will, this is unethical. You are under the influence, and I cannot possibly take advantage of you.”

“But you want to.” The glint in his eyes says so, sparking an illicit thrill in his gut. “Go ahead, Dr. Lecter. I can see a lot more clearly now. I can see you.” The glow that surrounds him is near ethereal, and Will wants a taste.

He grips Hannibal by the hips and brings him closer. Pressed tightly against each other, massager firmly lodged between them, Will works them into a steady rhythm. He watches the way Hannibal’s mask slips, the crinkling of his eyes and the thin line of his mouth betraying just how much more he wants, but doesn't dare ask. There’s a line between surrender and reluctance at play in the way he looks at Will, but in the end, he allows it.

Will likes the unexpected rush of power he gets from this. He wonders what else he could make Hannibal do for him, were he to ask right now. He also wonders if he will forget all about this encounter come morning, once the drugs have worn off after good sleep.

Regardless, in the here and now, Hannibal is a safe place. He’s making Will feel really fucking _good_ , and that’s all he needs.

“Everything is trembling,” Will tells him, chest to chest and thinking about kissing his strangely shaped mouth. “You, me, your office. It’s as if everything is going to come apart.”

Hannibal breathes heavily against his lips, and he looks so hungry. “I won’t allow you to break. You can always come to me.”

Will nods, hurries the movement of his hips when the vibrations become stronger, making his thighs tremble, urging Hannibal to come closer and feel it, too. He wants him to feel his release, his euphoria.

Hands come around Will, holding him tight as he’s pushed over the edge. He is aware, painfully, of the ropes of come that shoot out of him, staining both machine and the impeccable fabric of Hannibal’s suit. Heat and delirium seize his lungs, squeezes his stomach, and Will is falling.

Hannibal whispers into his ear things he can’t catch, but the lulling quality of his voice tethers him. He is warm, and safe, and his limbs feel deliciously absent.

“I believe it is a good thing you are my last appointment of the day,” Hannibal says, a hint of mirth worming its way into his words. “I’m in need of a change of clothes.”

Will feels his face grin at the implication. “Driving is probably out of the question for me. I would bet my life that the stag statue by the door is shaking its head at me, questioning my life choices.”

“You are in no condition to return to Wolf Trap by yourself,” Hannibal assures him, pulling away and allowing Will to redress himself. The process is a lot more difficult than it should be, his button feeling too big for its eye. “In which case, I insist you stay the night. I have a guest room you can make use of.”

Zipping up, Will remains leaning against the desk. He realizes that the exertion has made the drug pump through him faster, the psychedelic properties only just kicking in. 

He sniffs, watches Hannibal try very hard to move without betraying his discomfort, and feels a deep rooted satisfaction at it being his fault. “Only if we get to share a cup of tea.”


End file.
